


'Cause Somewhere in the Crowd, There's you

by Dawnwind



Series: Ding-dong, The Bitch is Dead [2]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: AU, First Time, M/M, Meet-Cute, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Now that Hutchinson is a pop star, he invites Starsky to Glasgow to see his show. Will Starsky take the next step? Romance ensues.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Series: Ding-dong, The Bitch is Dead [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081604
Kudos: 12





	'Cause Somewhere in the Crowd, There's you

‘Cause Somewhere in the Crowd, There’s You  
by Dawnwind

_I was sick and tired last night when I called you from Glasgow…_

Opening the package that had been propped on his front door before he got inside, Starsky almost dropped the other contents when he saw the scrawled signature on the Christmas card.

Hutchinson.

The man on the album cover was bent over a piano, one hand spread to make a chord with thumb, middle finger and pinkie. The other hand was curled around a bottle of rye. Possibly in imitation, Starsky knocked back a tumbler of Johnny Walker, listening to the record multiple times, particularly the title track, a cover of ABBA’s _Super Trouper._

_All I do is eat and sleep and sing, wishing every show was the last show—_

Hutchinson was talking directly to him. That was abundantly clear. 

So what did he do about it? Wasn’t like he could drop everything and fly to a foreign country on a whim, seeking a man he barely knew. He had responsibilities, duties to fulfill.

Ken Hutchinson was an emerging pop star, his fame coming on the coattails of his wife’s infamous murder. Not the most auspicious thrust into international stardom, but successful, in spite of it all. Briefly a suspect, Hutchinson’s picture had appeared in every newspaper, celebrity gossip rag, and People magazine. His only previous hit song, _Black Bean Soup,_ had risen like a bullet on the American billboard top ten after the proof that exonerated him of her death. Well-known model Vanessa had been murdered for drug smuggling. 

It had been a surreal year.

Initially questioning him only hours after Vanessa’s death, Starsky hadn’t been able to ignore his—what was it? Not lust, more like an unexpected link with Hutchinson that had only strengthened, forging a powerful connection. Encountering him at the inevitable court hearings and lawyer briefings had led to a late night bender at Huggy’s. 

“We’re not…” Hutchinson had said vaguely, fingers gripping his glass so tightly Starsky could see the whites of his knuckles. “I’m no longer a suspect and the case is solved?”

“Yeah.” Starsky looked into those remarkably blue eyes, aware this should under no circumstances happen, and knowing full well that it would. “No conflict.”

“But interest?” Hutchinson finished, settling his fingers, still wet from the glass, against Starsky’s on the edge of the bar.

_So imagine I was glad to hear you're coming, Suddenly, I feel all right--_

Two days later, Starsky walked into a deluxe hotel in Santa Barbara near where Hutchinson was recording his first solo album. _Black Bean Soup_ was playing on the radio as he checked in. Eerie to hear Hutchinson’s voice when he wasn’t actually in the building.

“Could you give me directions to this address?” Starsky asked, showing the desk clerk his destination. “Or a map?”

“That’s close by.” The young woman grinned, canting her head to twirl a lock of jet black hair around her finger. Flirting, eyes full of promise.

Starsky took a step back. “Right or left?”

“To the left.” She made a grab for his hand, walking toward the front entrance.

Starsky resisted her entanglement, amused and unsettled. Following her to the door, he reflected that until the fateful day he’d arrived at Venice Place to investigate Vanessa’s murder, he would have gladly taken the woman up on her offer. Female, and the occasional male, both attracted him. He’d rarely given into his private interest in men, but it had always lurked in the shadows.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d fallen for Hutchinson so effortlessly. Like Alice going down the rabbit hole into a whole new Wonderland. 

“Firefox Recording studio is just past the end of the hotel, in that small cluster of buildings.” She pointed a red polished fingernail at some white stucco buildings with red tile roofs similar to almost every other structure in the ocean side city. 

Although Starsky’d lived in Bay City for the better part of his life, he’d never driven up the coast to this remarkable paradise. “Thanks—“ He gave her a friendly nod, the urge to run toward Firefox almost palpable.

“Myrna,” she supplied brightly. “I’ll be on until eleven.”

It was going on six pm. With any luck, Starsky expected to be well occupied for the entire evening. Hutchinson had promised a private recording session, a tour of the building, dinner, and then— Beyond that, Starsky had certain trepidations. Hutchinson was unlike any other man he’d ever met. They’d clicked within moments of meeting, despite the presence of a dead body not five feet away. But in a real sense, this was foreign territory.

After Myrna took her leave, Starsky glanced around, making sure he had the hotel address memorized. Tall palm trees swayed in the mid October heat. Felt like he was in one of those romance novels his old girlfriend Helen used to read, full of star crossed lovers flummoxed by a series of obstacles before the inevitable capitulation. He took a deep breath and sauntered down to a red door with a small sign reading Firefox in fancy calligraphy. 

“Must be the place,” Starsky said out loud. A wild spray of burgundy bougainvillea crawled up the side of the building, giving the place a Technicolor ambiance.

He knocked and was admitted by a bearded roadie who had obviously been placed on lookout for him. The bear of a man gestured toward another door with an earthy grin.

Apparently Hutchinson’s crew was matchmaking?

Starsky looked through a large window in the hallway into a series of smaller rooms. Although he’d never been in a recording studio, he could tell the chamber in the front was for the sound equipment, and the half-visible one beyond was where the singer or musicians performed the songs.

Gathered around the board covered with sliding levers, colored lights, and buttons were four men deep in discussion. Starsky only had eyes for one. 

Hutchinson turned and saw him through the glass, his inner light glowing like a lighthouse beam welcoming Starsky home.

“You made it!” Hutch poked his head out the side door and grabbed Starsky’s arm to haul him inside. “I just finished doing the first song. It’s a little uneven. Take a listen and see what you think.”

Suddenly under pressure in a situation he hadn’t anticipated, Starsky waved away the invitation. “I’ve heard you sing, it’s always terrific.” Even Hutchinson’s absent minded vocalization the other evening at Huggy’s had had been a concert. He grinned, mesmerized by Hutchinson’s summer blue eyes. “You guys are the experts.”

“This one has no manners.” A tall, Ichabod Crane of a man, bald on top but sporting an old-fashioned queue in the back, complete with a black bow, held out his hand. “Joe Caldwell, Firefox owner and record producer.” He had a gold hoop in one ear.  
“This is my sound engineer, Zug Paresky, and Ken’s right hand man, Lefty Alvarez.”

Starsky shook Caldwell’s hand, nodding to the others. He felt strangely out of his depth here. “Never been in a music studio before.”

“Starsky, this is exactly why I want your opinion.” Hutchinson pulled out a cigarette, lighting the tip with a kitchen match. “They’re sycophantic thugs. You’re the audience this is intended for, not them.”

“Put the needle in the groove,” he joked, belatedly aware of how dirty that sounded.

Hutchinson side-eyed him with a wonderfully wicked lift of one eyebrow. 

“Not on a record yet,” Alvarez deadpanned, tapping Paresky on the shoulder.

Until that moment, Starsky hadn’t even noticed that he was missing a right hand. His arm seemed to simply end at the wrist. No wonder he was called lefty.

The sound engineer adjusted couple of the sliding levers on his board and flicked two switches. A ripple of piano keys heralded Hutch’s soft, warm voice, _“I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore. If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before …”_

Starsky listened, enraptured. He’d never heard the song before but it somehow captured Hutchinson perfectly. His slightly awkward personality and endearing love of music. It wasn’t danceable or the kind of tune that would go into instant repeat on some top forty radio show. It had sweetness and a gratefulness not generally heard in pop music.

_“Who found out that nothing can capture a heart like a melody can? Well, whoever it was, I'm a fan—“_

Looking over at the man, Starsky was struck again by his incredible beauty—and slight geekiness. Hutchinson had his eyes closed, swaying slightly to the music as he mouthed the words he’d just recorded. Alvarez, Paresky, and Caldwell listened with concentration, clearly alert for any flaws.

As far as he was concerned, there weren’t any. “That was terrific!” Starsky erupted when the last notes had died away.

Hutchinson blushed, the bright pink clashing with the moss green shirt he wore. “Thanks.” He brushed a hand gently against Starsky’s arm. “I still think I could work on the middle—pump up the second ‘thank you for the music’…”

“I agree. Record it one more time, and we can splice the two best bits together,” Paresky said amiably.

And he did. Starsky sat quietly in a corner as Hutchinson sang, feeling like it was a special concert for him. Hutchinson’s emotion sank deeply into his bones, and he marveled at how the man had beguiled him so quickly. 

He didn’t ever want to leave, but how could they make this work, logically? They were from two different worlds that rarely, if ever, intersected. And when those spheres did intersect, it was usually for horrible reasons, like murder. Precisely what happened to them. So what happened next?

He knew what they’d do tonight—that was a no-brainer. A fantasy. He looked forward to getting to know Hutchinson better, in every sense. But beyond that? The man was poised to tour the UK, and other far-flung cities, if this record became the next big hit. Starsky would hit the streets in forty-eight hours, chasing down pushers and murderers. 

There was no middle ground. 

He already felt the dreadful mourning their parting would cause. Until then, he would revel in their joyful coupling and pretend Hutchinson was his future.

The night was everything he’d imagined—and then some. They strolled back to the Belvedere, their hands brushing against each other, elbows nudging because they were so close. It was public foreplay. The cries of seagulls filled the air, mingling with the laughter of other romantic couples ambling along.

“Beautiful here,” Hutchinson said, stopping a few feet away from the hotel, in the shadow of a huge palm. 

The breeze off the water lifted blond locks off his forehead and Starsky wished it were his fingers there. He wanted to put his hands all over the man. Wanted to…this would not be his first time ever with a male partner, but it had been a very long, long time since he’d jumped into the fray. 

“Can’t take my eyes off the view,” Hutchinson said. Only he wasn’t looking out at the dark water, he was gazing at Starsky like a man confronted with his first glass of water after a lifetime in the desert. “You.” He raised a hand, curved inward as if holding something precious while realizing he was out in public. “Fill me with song.”

“You sang your heart out, babe,” Starsky said sincerely, leaning in toward that graceful hand. “Could listen all night.”

“I wanted you here—imagined every moment,” Hutch confessed with a goofy smile, smitten to the nth degree. “And now I’m not sure where to start. We have a day and a half?”

“I couldn’t take off any more time.” Starsky grimaced, the wind ruffling his own hair, ticking the backs of his ears. His skin felt overly sensitive, anticipating Hutchinson’s touch. “Ongoing case.”

“That you can’t talk about—“ Hutchinson guessed. “Should we check out the room service?” He reached over, fingers barely making contact with Starsky’s temple. “Bougainvillea petals in your hair.”

Shaking his head to dislodge the flowers brought his skin against Hutchinson’s hand and Starsky laughed out loud.

They ordered room service, both more focused on each other than what was on the menu. As hungry as Starsky was, he wanted a taste of what Hutchinson offered first. They’d banked their attraction since those first stilted meetings in February, suffering through the investigation and legal proceedings. With all that in the past, the desire was growing, passion igniting like kindling. 

Hutchinson gasped when their hands brushed again, and yanked his moss green shirt over his head in one move.

No mere campfire, this was a conflagration. Feverishly hot, Starsky was sweating profusely from the moment Hutchinson stripped down to a tight pair of clingy briefs. He stopped abruptly, standing self-consciously on the gold and brown striped rug as if his good sense had suddenly caught up with his actions.

Kicking off his sneakers, and shucking his jeans, Starsky grabbed Hutchinson’s hands, gently reeling him in. “Hey, where’d you get that song?” He held his breath as Hutchinson released his hands, long fingers tracing his jutting hipbones. He didn’t really want to talk, but he’d found it could ease a nervous sexual partner. “Sounded just like you.”

“Hope so.” Hutchinson laughed in that slightly superior way he got sometimes. “I was the one in the booth.” He laid a barely there kiss on Starsky’s shoulder and then worked his way up Starsky’s neck, leaving a trail of increasingly hungry kisses on his heated flesh. 

“Mushbrain,” Starsky whispered, vibrations like champagne bubbles inside his veins. “I meant it was you.” He placed his hand flat against Hutchinson’s breastbone, feeling his heart trip-hammering against his palm. “It was you, in here.”

“How’d you know?” he asked, wonder sufficing his elegant face with unearthly beauty. “How do you---get me? We barely know each other, and—“

“Feel like we been best friends forever?” Starsky snickered, walking him toward the king-sized bed on the back wall. “Confusing as hell.”

“And fantastic,” Hutch added, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull Starsky into the space between his spread knees. “I…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple riding the column of his long neck. “The song—“

“The song.” Starsky kissed him, all tongue and heat, not rushing the inevitable but sprinting into the action.

“It’s Swedish,” Hutch said distractedly, panting when Starsky pulled out, grinning.

“Swedish, huh?” Starsky went down, the carpet plush under his knees. “Thought you looked like a Viking.” Hutchinson’s cock was straining against the thin fabric of his underwear, the outline a provocative puppet ready to perform. Starsky slid a finger under the elastic band to coax it out. 

Released from its cotton prison, his cock launched upward, nearly smacking Starsky in the face. Starsky roared with laughter. Hutchinson yanked off his briefs, sighing when Starsky tasted the tip of his penis with his tongue.

Hutchison moaned, even his nonverbal utterances delightfully musical. Encouraged, Starsky braced each hand on Hutchinson’s thighs and took most of the throbbing length into his mouth. Like trying to swallow a wriggling fish, all movement, warmth, and thickness. 

Hutchinson moaned in a higher key, cradling the back of Starsky’s head to keep him in place. With a strong suck, Starsky hollowed his cheeks and then blew out a large breath.

Panting, Hutchinson began to sing, _“Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a man after midnight…”_

To the driving beat of the song, Starsky sucked and blew, ecstatic that he’d discovered exactly what turned Hutchinson on. It was working well on him, too. The stimulation of those strong fingers massaging his neck and shoulders was entrancing, intensifying his lust. Starsky swirled his tongue around the round head a third time, feeling Hutchinson’s scrotum tighten against his chin.

Hutchinson roared, coming hard. Slipping off so he wasn’t drowned, Starsky watched happily as his lover luxuriated in the aftermath of his orgasm. 

“I’m dizzy.” Hutchinson laughed lazily, tugging Starsky onto the mattress with him. He rolled onto his side so that they faced one another. “That was beautiful. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Starsky repeated, gazing at his sex drunk face. What a glorious sight, and all because of him. “Never done it with a famous person before.”

“Not famous.” Hutchinson shook his head, reaching out to toy with Starsky’s curls. “Lucky. Like that song. The guy who wrote it, Bjorn, and I are cousins. His family stayed in Sweden when my mother’s mother immigrated. I wrote a couple songs for him, and he’s covering _Black Bean Soup,_ so he let me cover a couple of his tunes.”

“He wrote about you,” Starsky theorized, sinking into that hand as Hutchinson caressed his jaw, then finger-walked downward to gently flick a nipple.

“Guess he did,” Hutchinson agreed. “But to be truthful, that’s not all of me. I have a secret—“

“Yeah?” Starsky wasn’t entirely focused on his words, with that wonderful, talented mouth suddenly pressed against his chest, applying suction to his tight nipple. The most incredible sensation he’d ever felt. No woman had ever done this to him. He inhaled, fixated on Hutchinson’s cheek moving in concert with his breathing. 

All too soon, his nipple was abandoned as Hutchinson licked and kissed his flat abdomen and the little line of hair below his belly button, honing in on his cock. Felt like it had been aching, begging, for half an eternity. 

“W-what’s…” He meant to ask more about the secret, cause he really wanted to know, but he couldn’t concentrate with the sweet, sweet pressure at his groin. “Taking so long?” he said instead, impatient.

“Gotta do this right,” Hutchinson whispered, licking one palm and then the other before fisting the base of Starsky’s cock.

If he’d been a religious man, Starsky would have been praying then. Hutchinson moved his hands slowly up the column, tightening his grip and giving a slight twist every few inches. This must be what heaven felt like— visceral stimuli transmitting into out of body consciousness. He was sure he could lift off the bed and fly had he not been held down by Hutchinson’s increasingly provocative hand job.

His whole body spasmed from the climax, stopping his breath with the intensity. Starsky threw back his head, vibrations twanging every nerve ending from his cock to the top of his head. “Man,” he gasped. “You got good hands.”

“All that practice,” Hutchinson started, suddenly caught between what he’d meant and what he’d said. “Piano practice. Guitar. N-not…”

“Knew what you meant.” Starsky rolled into him, kissing his mouth to stop his explanations. 

Dislodging Starsky, Hutchinson pulled the coverlet down on the bed so they could get in properly, and both claimed enough pillows to lounge comfortably until room service arrived. 

“I wanted to be a cop, like you,” Hutchinson said, gazing out the dark window as if he couldn’t quite admit that directly to Starsky. His fingers idly tapped his breastbone.

“What?” Starsky blurted, going up on one elbow to stare at him. “When?”

“You work for your high school newspaper?” Hutch huffed a laugh. “Next you’ll ask where and how.”

“I am a detective.” Starsky smacked his upper arm with just enough force to get Hutchinson to turn toward him. 

“I applied to the police academy, in Duluth,” he said sheepishly, lacing his fingers through Starsky’s. “But my father forbad it. He told me to go law school, at a respectable Ivy League school.”

If asked what secrets Hutchinson had kept back from People magazine and the countless tabloid articles about him and late wife Vanessa, a law degree wasn’t even in the running. “You know how to drop a conversation starter—“ he said. “Or stopper, take your pick. So how come you’re not some big shot lawyer now?”

“Hated Yale. With a passion.” He leaned against the head of the bed, resting their joined hands in his lap. “I started writing poetry. Little snatches of songs, and practicing them in the coffee house late at night when I should have been studying jurisprudence.”

“Prudence wouldn’t come out and play?” Starsky quipped, referencing the Beatles song, half to prove he had some music trivia.

 _“It was a brand new day…”_ Hutch sing-songed. “Caldwell was a regular at the Cup of Joe and snapped up _Black Bean Soup_ when I hadn’t even finished all the lyrics.”

“Changing history,” Starsky pulled his bed partner closer, hugging him around the middle.

“Van and I went to Southern California. But where I was a one hit wonder, she was the biggest thing since Jean Shrimpton.” He shrugged, tucking his head against Starsky’s shoulder. “Would rather have been a cop.”

“And then we wouldn’t have met,” Starsky said philosophically, stroking the blond hair tickling his cheek.

Hutch regarded him with such vulnerability and adoration, Starsky felt loved from the inside out. “Only you would put a spin on it to make—what happened a good thing.”

“Murder is never good.” Starsky kissed his cheek, humming happily when Hutchinson kissed him on the lips, his mouth as succulent as a fresh peach. “But it causes change. Usually bad, but—“

“Sometimes good,” Hutchinson finished his sentence.

The remainder of the weekend was wonderful, a precious memory for those days when life seems like a slog with no redeeming features. Walks on the Santa Barbara beach between Hutchinson’s recording sessions. Breakfast at a swanky hotel restaurant that served mimosas and eggs Benedict on Sunday morning, and a leisurely romp in their big bed before Starsky had to drive the three hours back to Bay City. It was like tearing his heart out of his chest.

That was almost two months ago. There’d been the occasional phone calls, and a single night when Hutchinson had a long stopover in Los Angeles. He’d booked an airport hotel for the afternoon and they’d lain together, both so stressed and preoccupied that they couldn’t get it up. Hutchinson had spent the rest of the time apologizing for his own inadequacies. 

_Facing twenty thousand of your friends, how can anyone be so lonely?  
Part of a success that never ends._

The needle on the record scritched as it circled off the last song and into the center grooves of the LP. 

Starsky stared at the plane ticket that had been tucked inside the Christmas card, negotiating the pros and cons of jetting to Scotland. He could imagine what Captain Dobey would say, or rather shout. But, he had two days off in a row—a rarity in his schedule—and could always pretend he’d been sick. The week of Christmas.

Hung over. Dobey would believe that. 

Could he really do this? Should he? 

When had he ever taken the wise choice in life? So much of the time he’d tried to conform, to fit in when he really didn’t. Going to Viet Nam like a good soldier. Becoming a cop to right wrongs and falling half in love with his older partner John Blaine, a married man. Courting women when his eyes kept straying to slimmer hips with a bulge in front. 

Hutchinson was his destiny. He’d known that since the minute they met, whether he’d wanted to accept it or not. Pure love, something he’d never had before. And most importantly, Hutchinson felt the same about him.

Jumping to his feet, Starsky went with heart. He grabbed an overnight bag from the closet and stuffed two pair of jeans, a couple shirts, red and green Santa Claus socks, and a tube of toothpaste inside. Remembering that it was December, he added his favorite wool pullover. And found the passport he’d gotten the previous year when he went undercover on a cruise to Mexico.

Frantically going over what else he might need, Starsky dialed Simmons, one of the other detectives on the squad. The guy owed him a solid. Starsky had covered for him when he’d flown to Hawaii for a weekend. Took less than a minute to coerce Simmons into taking his shift on the holiday, and Starsky was out the door, driving to LAX like a fiend.

_There are moments when I think I'm going crazy  
But it's gonna be alright. (You'll soon be changing everything)_

The plane ride seemed agonizingly slow— flight attendants offered him countless cups of coffee. He dozed through the movie Grease and ate not one but three meals served on tiny trays that made cutting meat impossible.

Starsky was ready to jump out of his skin by the time he stepped off the jetway in Glasgow airport. He whizzed through customs since he only had the one bag, and was hailing a taxi in no time.

It was seven forty-five when they arrived at the Apollo on Renfield Street. White fairy lights decorated the entire roofline and an enormous red bow sat on top of the marquee. Beyond tired but energized at the same time, Starsky stood in front of the large poster advertising the event. A handsome blond man was bent over a piano, fingering the keys, his other hand wrapped around a bottle of whisky.

This was it, the moment of truth that would undoubtedly change the rest of his life. Starsky took a deep breath to quell the buzzy bees in his belly and walked around to the back entrance, crossing his fingers that he’d be let in.

_So I'll be there when you arrive. The sight of you will prove to me I'm still alive.  
And when you take me in your arms and hold me tight, I know it's gonna mean so much tonight._

The same bearded roadie grinned widely enough to show a gold tooth in the back. “Starsky, my man! Ho ho ho, Santa must have brought you in his sled. You’re what Hutchinson’s been wishing for.”

As if he’d known the way beforehand, Starsky dashed down the corridor, past musicians setting up instruments for the performance and stage hands moving mics onto the stage. Something he couldn’t explain directed him to the left, behind the stage, to a small room with a gold star on the door.

“Hutch—“ he called, knocking, his heart beating double time.

The door swung open, Hutchinson’s eyes going wide with surprise. He was dressed in a blue denim shirt and dark blue jeans. Nothing fancy or overdone; his good looks and lyrical voice all he needed for the performance.

“You made it! I didn’t think you’d…” Hutchinson faltered, clearly overjoyed.

“Got the plane tickets but none for the show. Figured you had to let me in back stage,” Starsky said, holding out his arms.

Hutchinson enveloped him in a bear hug, kissing the lobe of his ear. “The concert was sold out—“ He stepped back as if still amazed to have Starsky there in the flesh. “Because it’s my last one.”

“Ken! You’re on in five,” Lefty Alvarez, wearing an Hutchinson Live! t-shirt called, holding up his left arm to show his watch.

“I’ll be there!” Hutchinson promised without letting go of Starsky. “There’s a place for you off stage.”

“Your last show?” Starsky questioned as Hutch shoved his overnight bag into the dressing room and grabbed a Gibson guitar. “Where’re you playing next?”

“Bay City.” Hutchinson grinned mischievously. “Merry Christmas.”

“What the hell?” Starsky said too loudly and was shushed by several members of the crew.

“Doing one of those televised New Year’s Eve shows,” Hutchinson explained, hustling them through hanging curtains to a little couch literally inches from the raked stage. “Didn’t take long to know touring is not my bag. Got Lefty to book a couple of venues in California. More are in the works. One’s in Las Vegas on Valentine’s day.” 

He blushed when Starsky kissed him in front of the lighting crew. “Missed you so much, Starsky.”

“Missed you, too, babe.” Anticipating their future together, Starsky watched Hutchinson walk to the stage. At the last second before the audience erupted into excited applause, Hutchinson turned, his hair a golden nimbus in the spotlight, and blew a kiss to his love. 

_Tonight the super trouper beams are gonna blind me, but I won't feel blue, like I always do. 'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you._

Fin

Songs:  
Super Trouper, Thank you for the Music, and Gimme a Man After Midnight by Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus  
Dear Prudence by Lennon and McCartney


End file.
